The warmth of the small room pressed against my bruised body, and for the first time since that terrifying fall, I allowed myself a breath that felt entirely my own. My daughter's tiny head rested against my chest, her soft cries barely piercing the stillness, yet somehow it grounded me. Her warmth, so small and fragile, made the cold fear of the forest vanish for a fleeting moment. Around me, the soft glow of lanterns painted the walls with a golden hue, and the scent of herbs lingered faintly, soothing in a way I couldn't explain.
Elenya knelt beside my bed, her silver eyes calm and observant. She gestured slowly, pointing to her lips, then to me, repeating sounds that had no meaning to my ears. I stared at her for a long moment, overwhelmed, until I realized she was asking if I was alright. I nodded, my throat tight, my voice still too weak to form words. Her faint smile, soft and careful, was the first thread of connection I had felt in this strange, unreal world. Even without understanding, I sensed her kindness, and it made my chest ache with relief.
Days passed like gentle waves. I rested while Elenya guided me through small gestures, teaching me sounds and hand signs that seemed almost musical. I stumbled often, my clumsy attempts making her smile, and sometimes, when I laughed quietly, she laughed with me. The baby stirred, and I felt her tiny hands brush against my chest, a heartbeat against mine that made the world feel less terrifying. For the first time, I allowed myself to hope that we could survive here, in this place I didn't understand.
And yet, even in these small moments of calm, questions gnawed at me. Who is the father of this child? The thought was sharp and relentless. I held her close, but the emptiness inside me stretched beyond the soft warmth of her body. I had no memories of a husband, no inkling of a lover, no story of how this life came to be. Only her, only this moment, and the ache of longing that seemed unnameable.
Sometimes, in the quiet dark, flashes of memory cut through the fog. A trembling hand, candlelight flickering over a piece of parchment, and a whispered voice that I did not recognize:
"Forgive me… for wanting to see you again."
The words belonged to someone else—Harriet, I would later understand—but the emotion hit me with clarity. Fear, love, and desperation curled around my chest like a vice. My pulse quickened, and I found myself clutching the baby tighter. The memory was not mine, yet I felt it as though it had always been a part of me, echoing in the hollow spaces left by my ignorance.
I noticed the elves watching us closely. Their glances were subtle, but sharp, their whispers almost inaudible. Elenya exchanged glances with the others, gesturing and pointing toward the baby. Unease lingered in the air. The tiny being in my arms, so delicate and alive, seemed to hold an aura that drew attention I could not understand. I tightened my grip instinctively, protective and fearful, unwilling to let her go.
Then the leader came. He entered quietly, his silver hair catching the soft lantern light, his eyes sharp yet calm. My breath caught as he approached, and the weight of his gaze made my pulse stutter. He spoke, and for the first time, I understood perfectly—no translator, no gestures needed. His voice was steady, even, but carried an authority I could feel in my bones.
"The child is safe," he said. "You are safe. It is rare… this light that clung to you. It should not have survived."
I blinked, unsure whether to feel relief or fear. Light? Survived? His words were cryptic, but I sensed the weight behind them. This was no ordinary world. There were forces here I had not yet begun to understand. Even so, a small spark of hope flared within me. If the leader could speak to me, perhaps he could help me understand everything that had brought us here.
After a pause, he left, and the room seemed to exhale with the absence of his presence. Elenya returned, carrying a tray of soft food and a small vial of medicine. She set them carefully beside me, gesturing for me to eat and rest. I nodded, grateful beyond words, my eyes never leaving the soft curve of my daughter's back. She was alive. She was mine—if not by blood, then by the heart.
Night fell, and the moonlight poured silver across the wooden walls. I held the baby close, feeling her gentle heartbeat beneath my fingers. The soft glow highlighted her features, the curve of her cheeks, the tiny fingers that grasped at nothing and everything at once. I whispered to her softly, words of comfort, promises I wasn't sure I could keep, but words that tethered us to this moment: "We'll be alright… I'll protect you… always."
Outside, the forest whispered with unseen winds. Shadows flickered, and for a moment, I felt as though the trees themselves were watching. Something stirred beyond the hut, something unseen, and a strange tension pricked at the back of my neck. I pressed the baby closer, silent and vigilant. The world I had once known—modern, familiar, predictable—was gone. This world was alive, magical, and dangerous. And yet, nestled here in this warm room, with her tiny life against my chest, I allowed myself a quiet hope.
For the first time in my life, I felt needed, and in that need, I found a strength I had never known. I was not just surviving. I was beginning to live.